But what is life ?

Despite a strike at Frankfurt airport an uneventful journey . On the flight home across the Alps an exceptionally tall - 6' 7" at least - priest sits next to me . Red buttons on his cassock. Probably a Monsignor. He crosses himself on takeoff and again every time we hit turbulence . It's a rough flight . The Monsignor has a diet Coke. Angus, unnerved by this sacerdotal presence with a fear of flying , has something stronger .

Home to find bright sunshine and Wilf and ' the font ' having lunch at the little restaurant under the arcades. I sit down . Wilf puts his chin on my knee and sighs. Two minutes of reassurance and he's back under the table, asleep again . As the plates are cleared away the old fellow picks himself up and tries to follow the waiter into the kitchen . He's gently reminded we're not at home . In return a '' But what is life if you don't live it ? " look.